


To Make the Gods Take Notice

by AnUnhealthyDoseOfAngst



Category: Game of Thrones (TV), Vikings (TV)
Genre: Blood and Gore, Blood and Violence, Implied/Referenced Torture, Poor living conditions, Starvation, Suicidal Thoughts, reluctant allies, so much sass
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-23
Updated: 2018-04-15
Packaged: 2019-02-06 00:50:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12806007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnUnhealthyDoseOfAngst/pseuds/AnUnhealthyDoseOfAngst
Summary: Arya is an acolyte in the House of Black and White. Her mentor expects her to become no one but leaving her old life behind proves to be difficult.Upon arriving in Braavos, Ivar hears rumours of a temple where death is worshipped. Clearly, this must be the right place for him to go.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm finally bringing two of my favourite murder babies together!

Ivar leans forward, anticipation rising through his body. It’s been almost a week since he arrived in Braavos and he’s heard what happens to people that disappear into the House of Black and White, never to be seen again. The sheer luck of getting to witness it during his first visit to the temple is enough to set a pleased grin on his face. The man’s hands are so unsteady that he needs help holding the cup. Meanwhile, Ivar's own hands form tighter and tighter fists. He sees the man’s throat move as he swallows the liquid. This is it. The man’s breathing begins to change. Slowing, as if he has to concentrate in order to do something that normally comes automatically. Ivar doesn’t even notice the way his own breathing quickens in a sharp contrast to the dying man. Gods, it has been so long since he saw someone exit this life. The man lets go of the cup and he tips to the side, one arm reaching past his head while the rest of his body stays curled in on itself. Ivar waits for the death throes to set in, the ones that he’s seen in Saxons after he’s buried his axe in them. Seeing someone twitch as if struggling to keep the life from running through their fingers only serves to make him feel more alive himself. The death throes never come. Ivar waits, Ivar stares but the man doesn’t move. The transition into an empty husk has gone by completely imperceptible.

“Disappointed?” Ivar snaps his head around, cursing himself for jumping at the sudden noise. A girl is observing him. She’s one of them, she must be. Her clothes are the same simple black tunic and white undershirt that the blonde girl from earlier had. Even their hairstyle is similar, though this girl is brunette and she’s clutching a broom in her left hand.

“Their deaths are-”  He wants to say boring but thanks to Ubbe’s gentle scoldings he knows that is not the appropriate thing to say.

“Peaceful.” He adds finally, though he’s not able to stop a look of distaste from overtaking his features. Ivar had hoped for at least a bit of blood. Perhaps they would cough it up, staining the floor and their clothes, or maybe it would run out of every orifice. The girl presses her lips together, briefly tilting her head backwards as if to compose herself.

“What did you expect from a guild of assassins? They work carefully, quietly.” Aside from noticing her accent, Ivar immediately reacts to her choice of words.

“They, not we?” Her jaw tightens at his question.

“I sweep the floors.” She mutters, already beginning to turn away from him. Ivar must have hit a sore spot and he’s not about to miss an opportunity to distract himself from his own issues.

“You sound disappointed too.” He says casually. The girl turns in a whirlwind, hands gripping at the handle as if she’s preparing to hit him over the head with it.

“I am training to be one of them!” She snarls. Ivar laughs at that.

“Training to be their maid, you mean. Why should they want a skinny little thing like you to be one of them?” She steps closer, eyes burning and clearly on the verge of spitting out some choice words when someone clears their throat and they both instinctively turn their heads to look. A man with long copper hair stands by an open door at the furthest side of the room.

“A girl has work to do.” He says in a level tone and nods at the open door.She grimaces at the sound of his voice but apparently she doesn’t dare to disobey. With one last scrunch of her nose in Ivar’s direction, she turns on her heel and strides past the man.

 

*******

 

Ivar returns the next day. The girl has just finished sweeping the floor surrounding a treelike carving when he crawls inside and props himself up against the wall. Someone else has tasted from the well and two other servants are busy carrying the body away. Ivar waits for her to come closer before gesturing at the pool.

“Is that the only way to die here? Is there no one I can challenge to a fight?”

“You want to die like a warrior.” It's not a question. She tries to keep her eyes glued to the broom but he notices the way her eyes dart to the weapon at his hip. His tunic is long enough to hide most of the axe but the outline is visible even under the loose fitting fabric.

“Yes,” Ivar answers without hesitation “So that the gods will welcome me.” She has the gall to smirk at him.

“Then you’ve come to the wrong place.” Her answer stokes Ivar’s ever present anger.

“I thought the Braavosi were supposed to be great warriors.” He says, not even bothering with hiding his sourness. All he gets in return is another cold response.

“This isn’t Braavos. It’s the House of Black and White.” With that, she decides that she’s done sweeping the floor and disappears into a corridor. The room is so dark that, in Ivar’s mind, she might as well have stepped through a wall.

 

*******

  


Arya is freezing. It’s not so much because of the weather, Braavos actually has a fairly pleasant climate, as it’s the hunger and just sitting still in one place most of the day. She knows she ought to move around more but between the hunger and the blindness imposed upon her by Jaqen H’ghar walking is a dangerous venture. She could fall or pass out, being left defenseless in a city that still feels strange; and Arya knows what happens to girls that are defenseless. Someone leaves something in her bowl and the shock of it is almost enough to make her drop it. Arya wills herself not to let the meager collection of coins scatter all over the ground and she even manages a raspy ‘thank you’. Feeling around and counting the small metal pieces, she thinks that she might be able to buy a slice of pie at the end of the day. The young woman allows herself to feel pleased for a moment; not only will she eat but she has gotten better at counting the Braavosi currency. Her good mood doesn’t last for long. The first thing she notices is how the chatter of the crowd around her changes. It doesn’t stop but grows more hushed, more secretive. Then she hears the, regrettably familiar, dragging sound. He came by yesterday too but he never announced himself. Arya nearly took a swing at him just to show she knew he was there but that would have meant losing track of the bowl.

“Did they throw you out, little girl?” His accent sends a shiver down Arya’s spine; Braavos is a melting pot of different ethnicities but she can’t recall ever hearing anything like it. He situates himself next to her on the stairs.

“Can’t say I am surprised,” He says casually “How’s starving working out for you?” Arya bares her teeth, hackles rising. He’s still babbling on and Arya feels a snarl begin to build in her throat; she’s been patient enough with this stranger, shown him much more kindness than a wolf should. Then his stomach growls and her senses perk up at the sign of weakness, distracting her from lashing out. This is better, much better. Arya imagines that he's not one to take kindly to insults. The stranger coughs in a poor attempt to hide the continued noises from his stomach. A smugness seeps through her misery; at least he’s suffering too. He pokes at her leg and Arya swats him away, finally interrupting his tirade.

“I’m not deaf,” She says curtly. He tries to interrupt but Arya raises her voice “Even with all this noise I can hear your stomach growling.” Those words finally shut him up. She wets her lips before speaking again.

“That’s why you stole a coin or two from me yesterday. I thought you were just being an insufferable shit but you’re starving too; same as me.” First, he goes completely still. Arya can’t even hear the sounds of him shifting his weight from elbow to elbow. Then there’s a string of foreign curse words and a flurry of motion next to her as the stranger takes off. Arya laughs, laughs until it turns into coughing.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER WARNINGS: Semi-graphic violence

Ivar finds her begging in the same corner as the two previous days. He sees the way her glazed over eyes begin to dart back and forth in a fruitless attempt of finding him.

“So why did they kick you out, hmm?” He asks as he situates himself on the stone steps next to her ”Did they realize you have the strength of a fly and the wit of a pile-”  
“I killed someone.” He’s taken aback by her direct answer.  
“You? How? No, wait, that was a stupid question,” He waves his hand in dismissal of her attempt to answer “You used that poison, like a coward.” The girl swats at him with her staff, and he chuckles as she misses by more than a foot.  
“I stabbed him,” She answers just as confidently as she did the first question, revealing to Ivar that she feels no remorse “In his eyes, his mouth. I told him who I was and why I was going to kill him. Then I slit his throat.” Ivar’s eyebrows nearly disappear into his hairline.  
“Not bad for a first kill.” He admits reluctantly, with a nod that she can’t see.  
“It wasn’t my first,” She says “and if you don’t leave me alone, I guarantee it won’t be my last.” He’s been so absorbed by their conversation that at first he doesn’t notice that they have company. It’s not until he tilts his chin up that he spots her. The blonde girl from the temple is standing right in front of them with a staff in her hand.  
“Leave.” She orders. Ivar nearly stays, if for nothing else just so that he can spite her and her idiotic religion. But when she motions to raise the staff he decides against it. There’s no need for him to put himself in more pain. Ivar drags himself across the street, then watches from around a corner as the blonde beats the other with the wooden staff.

 

*******

 

There’s a sickening crunch as the staff collides with Arya’s nose and she staggers backwards into the wall. She scrambles to hold herself up but fails, nails scraping at the stone surface as she slides down onto the ground.

“Who are you?” The Waif asks. Her steady breathing shows no signs of strain; beating Arya to a bloody pulp demands no effort from her.

“No one.” Another hit lands just above Arya’s elbow and she bites her tongue not to sob at the pain flaring through her limb. She gingerly stretches the other arm out in search of her own staff. The Waif is still speaking, going on and on with the same speech as always. Arya’s fingers brush against something wooden and she has to remind herself not to be too obvious with what she’s trying to do. She lunges forward with a grunt, aiming for the other girl’s legs. Arya swears that she can hear the Waif sigh as she sidesteps the attack and pushes Arya back down on the stairs before delivering another hit. This blow lands square on her stomach, powerful enough to knock the breath from her. Arya is still doubled over and clutching at her midsection when the Waif speaks up again.

“Arya Stark doesn’t belong with the Faceless Men. Go home, before we have to kill you.”

 

*******

  
  
As far as sleeping outside goes, Arya knows she could do a whole lot worse. In this alley she is sheltered from the winds. It is close enough to the Happy Port that she can scream and make a run for it should anyone try to attack her, yet far away enough that those she knew as Cat of the Canals won’t expose her. At least that is what she hopes. Sitting on the spread out blanket, Arya drinks the last of the water that some kind soul gave her. She knows she ought to save some of it but her throat feels like she’s swallowed a mouthful of sand. Setting the waterskin aside, Arya fishes the coin out of her pocket and clutches it in her fist.  
“Cersei Lannister,” She begins her prayer “The Red Woman. Ilyn Payne. Grego-”

“What are you muttering about?” The heavily accented voice asks from far away.  
“Shut up!” Arya snaps. She picks up where she left off, or rather tries to, even as she hears him slither closer like some overgrown snake.

“Gregor Clegane. Walder Fr-”

“Is it a list of baby names?” He interrupts. A finger prods at her stomach through the worn tunic and she flinches back, teeth bared “Are you having a little bastard?” The glee in his voice is unmistakable. The words of Syrio Forel is the only thing keeping her seated. _Calm as still water._ Arya slowly lets out her breath.  
“It’s a list of people I’m going to kill.” Ivar guffaws.  
“And what did they do to get on this list; call you a sewer rat?” He mocks “You realize that you do look like-” She lunges at him, coins scattering as her fist collides with his jaw and cuts him off mid-sentence. He shouts in surprise but is quick to regroup and fight back. He immediately tugs at her cloak, forcefully enough that the collar chafes at her neck and makes her gasp for air.

“Heimsk tik! I am a prince!” The young man roars above her. Arya scratches and squirms, even as he traps her between his body and the ground. _Fierce as a wolverine_ . Arya whips her head forward, using all of her strength, and collides with what has to be the man’s mouth. His teeth scrape along her forehead and the grip at her cloak falters as he tips to the side. There’s blood smeared on her forehead. She’s not sure which of them it belongs to, it’s likely both, but at the moment it doesn’t matter much. Arya fumbles until finding his braid, then takes a fistful of greasy hair and yanks.  
“They killed my father,” She snarls in his face “Then my brother, his pregnant wife and after that my mother.” Her voice cracks but her grip on the stranger only tightens. He doesn’t fight back this time, and he has gone eerily quiet. Eventually, Arya lets go of him. She curls up on her blanket, back turned to him and hopes that he will leave before she loses control of the tears.

 

*******

 

She listens to him sleeping, her lips curled into a strange grimace that she’s not quite sure if it’s more pity or disgust. He snores too and coupled with the smell she almost finds herself wondering if she has accidentally wandered into a pigsty. Deciding that she’s heard enough, Arya throws the wrapped up loaf of bread at him and hears him stir while cursing.  
“What the hel are you doing?” He barks. There’s a rustle as he lunges at her and she steps aside just in time to avoid being tackled to the ground. She's improved quickly in the past few days. Bringing her staff down in a rapid movement, it definitely impacts with something and she cackles at the sound of him yelping in pain.  
“Eat, prince pig.” He is still muttering, albeit in a muffled voice, when she sinks down next to him and helps herself to some of the food.

“How did you end up here?” She asks around a mouthful of warm bread. An unwelcome thought flashes through Arya’s mind: Septa Mordane would have smacked her head for displaying such poor table manners. Even thinking about the sanctimonious old bitch sends a fresh wave of grief through her body. The stranger's voice brings her back to the present.

“I’m not sure.” He answers. He sounds so pitiful that she almost apologizes for splitting his lip earlier in the week. They share the rest of the meal in silence, save for the occasional noises of their munching. He is still chewing by the time Arya brushes the crumbs from her tattered clothes.

“What’s your name?” There’s a moment of silence before he answers.

“Ivar.” Arya wastes no time, immediately beginning to recounts the lessons she's learned both as Cat of the Canals and as Blind Beth.

“It’s better to sleep at Ragman’s lane,” She says ”Not as many people there to stare and poke at you. But there’s no point in begging there. Most of them work at the harbour and barely have enough to feed themselves. There’s a baker at the east end of Moonsinger lane, he might give you some of the bread that's not good enough to be sold. Hide your axe-” Ivar cuts in.

“I _am_ hiding-”

“Hide it better,” She retorts “Or someone will try to take it from you.” The instructions continue on until the rest of Braavos comes alive and in all that time Ivar doesn’t question her words again, though she knows that he wants to. He even manages to keep his mouth shut long after she's stopped talking.

“I could just lie in waiting and take whatever coins you manage to collect.” He pipes up and she has to fight the urge to laugh.

“No, Ivar. I’m going home to Westeros,” She states ”One way or another I’m going home and you are not getting in my way.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRANSLATIONS  
> Heimsk tik - Stupid bitch
> 
>  
> 
> I finally got the second chapter out. Sorry for the long wait. The coming chapters will hopefully be easier to write.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The text in cursive is a memory!
> 
> CHAPTER WARNINGS: Hints at suicidal thoughts, nightmares

Ivar wakes with a shout. For a split second he thinks he’s back at the longboat, watching the heavy fog roll in, and his eyes flit in every direction possible. Realizing that he's in a Braavosi alley is both a relief and a disappointment. Tipping back against the wall, Ivar reaches a hand up to wipe the cold sweat from his face. His fingertips brush against another reminder. The thin scar on his cheek brings back an image of Hvitserk screaming, and Ivar can swear he feels fresh blood run down his cheek. His stomach demands attention and Ivar decisively shakes his head as if to rid it of the nightmare.

 

The man spots Ivar as soon as he rounds the corner, probably hearing his pained grunts even over the city noises.

“There you are, boy,” the baker grins “I was beginning to wonder if you had fallen into the water.” Ivar forces back the urge to reply that if he ever does end up in the water it won’t be by accident. The man holds half a loaf out for him to take, and the prince mumbles a ‘thank you’ under his breath. Ivar tears off a chunk of bread and inhales, eyes nearly rolling back into his skull as he realizes that the bread is still warm. He has to admit that this is better than what he’s been served back home. Even the burnt crust is a godsend.

“Have you seen her?” Ivar asks once he’s tucked the leftovers away. For the first few days he tried not to look at the baker handing out alms but eventually he caved. Even someone as stubborn as Ivar can’t deny the fact that this man is his lifeline.

“No.” Ivar has another question at the ready but the man turns away from him to smile at a scrawny girl that’s snuck up on them. Ivar waits in silence as the baker speaks to the child and gives her food. Much to the prince’s dismay, he notices that the girl’s loaf looks both bigger and less blackened than his own. It’s enough of an insult to make him forget the question. The girl scurries away and the baker straightens his back.

“Don’t worry,” He says with a smile, wiping his hands on the apron “Beth will outlive us all.”

 

After a day of fruitlessly searching for Arya, Ivar settles in for another night in the alley. He’s been in Essos for weeks and still no sign of the others. For a moment he finds himself missing the nightmare that woke him up. At least there he had Hvitserk by his side and a group of warriors that begrudgingly had come to respect his clever mind. His older brother’s false camaraderie wasn’t much to have but it was something. Better than nothing. Hell, even Arya would be a welcome sight right now but the strange man led her back to the temple sometime last week. Though the person he wants most of all is Floki. Helga too. He misses the stew she cooked and the ointment she made to help with the blisters on his hands. Ivar still dreams about Tanaruz from time to time, sees her lie dead at his feet. He hates the girl for taking them both from him but most of all he hates Björn. The reasoning seems sound in his head: if Björn hadn’t gone to the Mediterranean then Helga never would have met Tanaruz. Helga wouldn’t bring the girl home to Kattegatt and thus, she wouldn’t end up dead. Floki wouldn’t feel as if there was nothing left for him and he would have stayed. Instead, Ivar was left alone. Ubbe avoided him, Hvitserk cared as little as usual and Björn let his disgust show plainly. None of them believed him when he said that he didn’t mean to do it, no one ever would.

 

*******

 

As soon as she steps inside the room, Arya reaches out for the creature in the corner. It hisses but offers little resistance. No one had objected when it showed up in the temple three days ago; it just meant that there would be even less rats scurrying around in the gloomy corridors. Besides, she couldn’t stomach to leave Yoren the cat alone out there for long. He’s every bit as scruffy looking as his namesake. By the time the Waif approaches Arya has already schooled her features so as to not make her opponent suspicious. The blonde has been even more on edge than usual, perhaps thinking that Arya ought to be more grateful that Jaqen let her back inside the House of Black and White. But Arya worries. For prince pig and for little Carina. The Waif circles, trying to conceal the sound of her footsteps by dragging the staff along the floor. Arya flinches appropriately when it pokes at her shoulder. The Waif isn’t much for displaying emotions but there is a slight curve to her lips when she sees her victim recoil. Arya lifts her head and parries each new blow as best as she can even with her mind elsewhere, breath already strained. The staff sweeps through the air on its way to Arya’s shins and she narrowly avoids it. But once the attack passes she sees her opening. The Waif strikes four times in rapid succession, each one being warded off. And once her opponent is crouched over, with no time to regroup from the failed attack, Arya uses all her strength to drive her staff upwards to crack against the Waif’s cheek. For a moment there’s only silence. Then the Waif screams, lunging at the enemy. And Arya effortlessly blocks it. Yoren moves and Arya catches another glimpse of the blonde’s face. She can’t believe it; the Waif is afraid. Her posture has lost all determination. Then the moment is gone and the blonde turns her attention to the man who just entered. Arya shifts her focus, the cat in the corner disappearing further into the shadows as she relaxes some of her control over it and moves to face Jaqen.

“Come.” He says then turns and leaves. Arya lets the cat go. She follows the sound of sandals creaking and of Jaquen’s robe dragging across the floor. By the time they come to a halt there’s a draft. She knows where they are. The temple is old and Braavos lies by the coast, leaving the main room more vulnerable to chilly winds.

“Sit.” He orders next and the smooth rounded stone that she feels when obeying is familiar too. Waterdrops fall back into the fountain as Jaqen raises the small bowl. Arya’s hands are already reached out, prepared to accept it, and she tries not to think of the girl that she gave the water to but it is too late. The bowl stays halfway to her mouth.

“If a girl is truly no one,” he states “she has nothing to fear.” Jaqen has always kept his promises to her, and so she raises the bowl to her lips and lets the water pour down her throat. It doesn’t hurt. Not that it matters to her; she’s taken enough beatings lately that a faint sting in her throat wouldn’t be much of a bother. She opens her eyes. Arya blinks slowly, looking around the room. Yoren the cat slinks past them, a rat’s tail dangling from the corner of its mouth. Jaqen tilts his head, barely noticeable, and studies her closely for any traces of a lie.

“Who are you?” He asks. She meets his gaze, her face set in stone.

“No one.”

 

*******

 

_Old Nan has most of the Stark children gathered around her. Rickon is too little to be up this late but Sansa has been swayed to come with a promise that Nan wouldn’t speak of the Others this time. Arya would never admit it but she had been frightened too._

_“Do you know of house Farwynd?” The old servant ask adjusting the fur that Robb had offered to her in a display of chivalry._

_“Yes,” Robb answers immediately “it is a noble house with several branches in the Iron Islands. Sigil: a black ship, sailing on a black sea, the sun setting behind it.“ He is reciting maester Luwin’s words. Arya is tempted to roll her eyes at him but she knows he’s training to be lord of Winterfell one day; learning about the noble houses are part of that._

_“And what are their words?” Old Nan inquires. Robb pauses for a moment, then he begins to stutter. His cheeks turn the same shade as his hair. Nan’s face lights up with a mischievous smile._

_“Don’t worry, little lord Stark, I’d bet my good hip that your father doesn’t know either.” She says. Robb’s shoulders relax and he dares to look back up from the floor._

_“Now,” Nan starts “as you said they have branches. The most famous one is that which resides on the Lonely Light. As every other Iron Islander, the Farwynd’s are seafarers. Those people are bound to the water. Learning to swim before they can walk, gutting fish before they ever say mama...” Someone tugs at Arya’s braid and she whips her head around to see Jon sporting a shit-eating grin. She pinches him in retaliation, hearing Sansa sigh across the circle._

_“But lord Gylbert and his ancestors,” Nan continues as if never having noticed what the children were up to “There is something more there. Some say, that they are bound to the beings residing in the sea. Gylbert’s great grandfather was traveling from Harlaw. Gyles, his name was. One of his younger brothers was with him.” The children all lean in closer, knowing from her change in intonation that something is about to happen in the story. Out of nowhere, the winds had picked up and clouds gathered. Lord Gyles and his men found themselves in a storm. The journey from Harlaw to Lonely Light wasn’t long and no one had seen it coming. Once it was over the ship was battered, half the crew gone, but still afloat._

_“They never found the boy but the servants swore that lord Gyles went down to the shore every day.” Nan taps her hand against the armrest to emphasize the last words._

_“What was he doing?” Arya asks. Nan lifts her head in acknowledgement of the question before turning her gaze to the youngest child present._

_“Bran, could you tell me what happens when an animal that is being controlled dies?” His answer comes quickly._

_“The skinchanger feels the death as if it was their own.” Bran has always shared Sansa’s fascination for stories and songs, though they differ in what kind of stories they prefer. Nan nods then breaks into a coughing fit. Sansa is quick on her feet, dashing to Nan’s side and offering her some of the honeyed drink._

_“And if the skinchanger dies?” The old woman wheezes with one hand pressed to her chest._

_“A part of them might live on in the animal,” Bran says just as surely “Gyles was waiting for his brother.” Nan hums and nods, even flashing a proud smile at the boy before she continues._

_“Every sea lion, every walrus or spotted whale that he saw, the lord of the Lonely Light waited to see his brother.” She says solemnly, then falls silent for so long that Arya thinks the story is over._

_“You all have it too,” the woman adds before the children can get to their feet “Warg blood.” Sansa raises an eyebrow and opens her mouth as if to speak but Bran is quicker._

_“A skinchanger that enters the minds of wolves.” He says excitedly. Robb scoffs, earning the youngest boys attention._

_“It’s just a story, Bran.” He says dismissively. It is plain to see that Bran means to protest._

_“Is it?“ Old Nan cuts in, voice unusually sharp “Why do you think the Stark banner has a direwolf, hm?”  They all watch in confusion as Old Nan shuffles to her feet and leaves the room, muttering to herself about things that they don't understand._

 

Arya had enjoyed that story but now it only makes her bitter. Robb had a wolf. But like him it was put down at the Red Wedding, eliminating any chance of him living on in Grey Wind. Sansa no longer had Lady. For the first few days after the death of her mother and brother Arya stubbornly kept to the hope that perhaps another wolf was nearby, or even a dog. The Frey’s had to have dogs. As that hope faded Arya decided to learn what she could of skinchanging. No one and nothing, not even death, would force her out of this world until she was finished.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From A Wiki of Ice and Fire:
> 
> "House Farwynd of the Lonely Light is a noble house from the Iron Islands. It is a cadet branch of the main Farwynd house. Their lands lie on the Lonely Light, an island eight days sail to the northwest of Great Wyk. They blazon their arms with per fesse: below a black sea with crested line, a black longship, outlined against the setting sun, dark red on orange. Some claim that the Farwynds from Lonely Light are skinchangers who can take the forms of sea lions, walruses and spotted whales."


End file.
